but he's taller than you
by renesque-il
Summary: Insp. from the Don Bluth kids movie 'Thumbelina', but there are pretty big deviations from that plot line. Matthew is five inches tall, Gilbert is a tiny winged nerd in a crown. Adventure ensues. PruCan with side/suggested USUK.
1. Adventures in Miniaturisation

_A woman sat, hunched in rags, at the end of the street, and Francis pulled out his wallet. It was raining, so much that the street had begun to look like a muddy river. He sighed as he dropped the money into the plastic cup that rested in front of her. He didn't have much on him, but he gave her what he had. As he was walking away, however, she caught his hand, and looked up at him with surprisingly clear eyes. His brows lowered as she placed a small seed in his hand, and she gave a warm smile before dropping her head again. He stood for a moment with his palm open in surprise before murmuring a quick 'thank you' and leaving. He placed the seed in his jeans pocket and decided to plant it when he got home. _

_His wife, Jeanne, had died recently, and he was left with a son who was two years old and who he was at a loss with. He didn't really know what to do with himself anymore. It was with a sad sigh that he planted the seed, and the somewhat doubt-ridden hope that it would grow. _

_However, he was woken in the morning with the excited yaps of Alfred, his son, and was dragged into the living room, where his blurry eyes came to focus on an open flower that had bloomed from the pot where he had planted the seed the woman gave him. Francis blinked and shuffled towards the flower, hovering over it and peering in. Inside was a tiny form, like the body of a child but much smaller. __**Much **__smaller. The boy must have been half the size of Francis' thumb, and he sat up, rubbing his eyes with his fist. _

_The boy blinked up at Francis. "Papa." Francis stumbled back and looked at Alfred, who was staring up at him with glee._

"_He looks like me, doesn't he?" Alfred asked, before wandering forward to reach into the flower and pick up the tiny child, gently settling him on his palm before lifting the boy up close to his eye level. "He looks a lot like me."_

_Francis' eyes shifted from Alfred to the small boy in his palm and back again. The boy waved excitedly and with a roll of shock, Francis passed out._

Gilbert, having spent the majority of the afternoon avoiding his brother and the rest of it avoiding his responsibilities, flicked a wary glance over his shoulder as the threw his leg over the bird, it's yellow feathers ruffling a little under the pressure. He leant down so that his face hovered by it's own, and gave out a harsh whisper. "Okay. They're gonna see us as soon as we get out of here," he explained, gesturing to the hollowed wooden room surrounding them. Flattening his hand and pointing decisively upwards, towards the roof of leaves he could see through the door hole, he continued. "We need to clear the trees pretty quickly or it's going to be messy." He straightened up a little so that his spine was aligned with that of the bird. "Think you can do it, Gilbird?" The bird gave no answer but Gilbert's grin answered for him and he kicked the birds sides, laughing as he felt the fresh air envelop him, cold against his nose and harsh against his smile, but all the while invigorating. He heard his brother swearing, but only a second before he was over the green leaves and following the lines of the branches below him like a stone skimming water.

He lifted his arms as Gilbird started to weave between the branches, throwing his head back and – falling. Gilbert gave out an 'oomf' sound as he hit the branch that had been below him but managed to grab onto it before slipping off so that he hung by his arms, looking up to the sky in annoyance. Pulling himself up in the noisiest way he could in an attempt to attract the attention of the bird, who had continued on in blissful ignorance and was now a golden blur on the horizon, Gilbert grumbled nonsense. In fact, it was less of a grumble and more of a wordless announcement of irritation that was hiding behind the illusion of a grumble. Having reached safety, Gilbert whistled, watching as the bird paused for a second and came shooting back. He glanced up, his eyes now protected by his furrowed brows, at the sun that shone through the copse of leaves. He didn't know much about his eyes, but he knew they were 'sensitive'. His brother thought it must be something to do with the colour. Gilbert normally didn't pay them much mind, apart from maybe the automatic assertion that they were pretty awesome.

When his bird arrived, it perched on the other end of the branch, tipping it more than a little and making him slide down toward it, both legs dangling over the branch so that by the time he managed to stop himself he had been a very short moment away from the small but sharp claws on Gilbird's feet making contact with his crotch. He glanced from the scene up to the bird and back again. Gilbird made no movement, staring blankly forward, and Gilbert sighed, grabbing onto the wiry rope around Gilbird's neck to hoist himself up onto the back of the bird, settling his feet once again just under the wings.

"Okay. So, this time we're going to go to the houses." The bird didn't react and Gilbert nudged it with his foot, to which it made a faint sound of what he interpreted as agreement. "That'll take us," he glanced up at the waning sun and smiled. _Serves you right._ "about a half hour." He kicked the birds sides once again and, with a yell, they were in the air again, this time just below the branches – didn't want to risk getting knocked off after that incident.

Matthew hummed as the climbed the steep wooden stairs, paying close attention to where he stepped, his vision blocked by the pile of laundry in his arms that ended just above his head. He paused a moment, and looked back from the corner of his eye to have his suspicions – that Alfred hadn't closed the door – confirmed. With his hum petering out and his nose wrinkling a little, he lay the basket on the stair in front of him and turned back to close the door. Though he knew it was illogical that someone would break in, the open door made him uncomfortable. He chalked it up to the horror movies that Al loved and that he studiously avoided. After years of sitting on Al's beside table and trying not be crushed when his brother threw his hand out at a jump-scare or fall off the edge when he yelled out, he'd convinced Alfred firstly that horror movies should come equipped with earphones and secondly that something easy-going wasn't the worst idea in the world. Alfred never commented, but often raised his eyebrows or, worse, went silent, when he heard Matthew's film choices; Arrietty, Thumbelina, anything of that nature. Although Matthew tended to find the movies more cheesy than his brother (who had a not-quite-secret passion for a happy ending), he craved the feeling that they gave him – that he was not alone. He shook his head a little but smiled at his brother's retreating form. Though Alfred may have been somewhat airheaded at times, he wasn't a bad person.

Matthew's house, which was now thirty inches tall since his papa added on the attic, rested in the middle of a desk in Alfred's room and was plastered with stickers of superheroes that never seemed to peel and drawings in black marker of pirate hats and ships from Arthur's childhood obsession with pirate hood that had (officially) ended when he was ten, but that every now and again suddenly came flowing back. Matthew's papa, Francis, had often voiced his displeasure to this and offered to paint the house in a million different shades, but to no avail since both brothers agreed that it was good as it was – a mess.

Matthew, once again lifting his laundry, which he'd heard from Al was hard to hand wash (Matthew didn't have many chores due to his condition – his main task was generally to stay out of trouble), continued up the stairs, resuming his humming. He opened the door into a room on the second floor, where carved wardrobes lined the walls, ranging in design. He'd heard the wardrobes (as well as his other furniture) weren't difficult to find, but making them usable was. This was proved every time he opened one to see a row of hangers and marvelled at how someone could make even one. There were companies that would customize things for doll houses, but they were expensive and his papa considered himself an excellent craftsman. Money often went towards clothes, since most dolls clothes weren't exactly made for him and even the ones that were were uncomfortable and sometimes movement restricting. He did, however, have two pairs of jeans, five good t-shirts, and one pair of sturdy boots, which he spent most of his time in. Partly because he was most comfortable in them and partly because of all the time Francis had spent making them.

Matthew walked over to the middle of the room and placed the laundry basket on the floor. His room was at the top of the house, just below the attic, but he figured since he had so much space he might as well use it. He was about to reach into the basket and start sorting away the laundry, when he had a thought. Making his way back downstairs, he opened the front door and moved out onto the surface of the desk, grabbing onto the length of rope that hung from a tall metal pole attached to the edge and swinging down – when he was younger, he used a ladder, but it took too long and having to take in the height made him nauseous – the ladder was now only used for ascent. He made his way over to Alfred's beside table, and although Al had recently broken the ladder there in a morning post-wake up haze, Matthew had spent the majority of his life having his brother cheer him on as he kicked footholds into table legs, using thumbtacks for handholds by digging them into the wood while Arthur pretended he disapproved.

Scrambling up onto the table surface, Matthew moved towards his brother, who was sitting on his bed with the computer on his lap and hadn't noticed him yet. "Is Arthur coming over tonight?" Most weekends (and, honestly, most week nights) saw Arthur with the brothers, but much less so recently. In the last fortnight, Arthur had come over a total of once and he had left within forty-five minutes – Alfred had been uncomfortable on the subject of him for the same amount of time. It seemed to stem from something that happened at school, but since Matthew wasn't exactly a regular visitor there, he didn't know what had happened.

Alfred, who had jumped a little when Matthew first spoke, looked down at him with a hint of enthusiasm. "Yep. He'll be here in a like a," Alfred stopped as the door rang.

"Like a now," Matthew supplied.

"Yeah." Alfred closed the laptop and placed it at the end of his bed, moving to rush downstairs.

Though both brothers had known Arthur since they were five, him having seen Matthew sitting with Alfred under a tree at the park when Al had managed to sneak him out and started ranting about fairies (or faeries, as Matthew had been so often corrected), he was really more a friend of Alfred's. They had convinced him to come home with them and explained that although Matthew was not in fact a faerie, he was willing to be friends. At the time this had been solely so that there wouldn't be any cat-out-of-bag business where other people would start hearing about faeries in Alfred Jones' house, but the brothers had soon come to like the somewhat angry and surprisingly funny eccentric who swore up and down that faeries existed and that Matthew bore a striking resemblance to them. Matthew believed that Alfred may actually have come to love Arthur, his obvious crush having survived even the eleven to fourteen year old 'no homo' period.

Arthur appeared in the doorway, scanning the room. Although Francis was wary of letting Matthew go out places, it was without cause. People didn't see him unless they were looking – either because they didn't expect him to be there or because he lacked presence. Thus, Arthur made conscious effort to stay aware of where Matthew was in the room. The idea that he may accidentally crush Matthew had also inspired this behaviour.

Arthur noticed Matthew on the table after a couple seconds and greeted him with a small but fond smile and the words, "Hey, Matt." Matthew waved in response, just as Alfred appeared behind Arthur in the door way and gave his shoulder a light push so that he stumbled into the room, glancing back with slight annoyance. Arthur returned his attention to Matthew. "What's up?" Although he had lived in Canada since he was very young, his very noticeably English accent refused to die, and thus he went through life with minimal levels of sarcastic wit being interpreted as greater due to the well spread inferiority complex that seemed to plague those around him. The second he spoke he was labelled as 'clever' and 'funny', and that worked for him. Matthew asked if he was staying, glancing out at darkening sky and defined rivers that dripped down the window pane.

Arthur was about to speak, but was interrupted by Alfred. Matthew's brother had many positive attributes, but he wasn't what one might call polite. "Actually, Matt, we're going out."

Matthew raised his eyebrows, then realised that because he was so small it probably wasn't very noticeable, and replied, "Oh. Where?"

His brother shrugged. "Out."

Arthur glanced between the two. "We're going out?" It occurred to Matthew that he looked a little nervous.

Alfred nodded and repeated, "We're going out."

Arthur echoed Matthew, murmuring, "Oh," promptly after which he was bustled out of the door. Alfred turned to wink at Matthew before spinning into the hall and closing the door with a decisive _click_. Matthew stared for a moment at the closed door, blinked a couple times, and then smiled. He grabbed the rope on the side of the bedside table and shook his head as he went down. By the time his boots hit the ground, he was chuckling a little. He stopped chuckling when he realised he was going back to laundry and shook his head when he realised Al had left the window open.

Gilbert had always found where the humans lived pretty interesting. They were almost like people, in a lot of ways. They kind of freaked his brother out, but Gilbert found them fascinating – from all those walls they built around themselves to their rituals (he really liked how they changed into different clothes before sleeping and swore he'd try it out one day) to those weird boxes they moved around in. He couldn't get out to see them much, and when he did, if they were out of their homes or their boxes, they were normally not doing much, but he took the fact that they could speak as a sign of intelligence. Ludwig said they probably couldn't comprehend, and just repeated what they heard from passing people, like parrots. Gilbert's fascination with humans tended to surprise others and eventually drive them away, however. He'd been told he had a demeanour that did not match his personality or his interests. Because of this, he was normally lonely.

His favourite humans were two boys, who he had first spotted when he was very young. He couldn't really get close to them, though, since one of them started maniacally raving about faeries whenever he got close and he never seemed to be able to remain unseen. It was like the boy was _looking_ for small hidden people constantly. Thus, he was always far away, but there was something curious about them. Sometimes they'd both stare at a single spot. They'd just stop talking and look at a place on the ground, as if paying close attention to something he couldn't see at a distance. Afterwards one of them or both might laugh, or act as if they were replying. It confused him but there was nothing to be done about it.

It was later than he'd ever been near humans, though. It was dark. He moved towards what he knew was the taller one's house, where he knew his 'window' was. It was slightly ajar, and the space was by far big enough for Gilbert to fit through. He pressed himself against the window and surveyed the room in detail. There was no one inside. The room was big-ish with a bed and a huge mess on one side, and a table with a small human house on the other. Gilbert stared with obvious curiosity at the small house. It looked like he could walk around in it easily. He fluttered back over to the edge of the window sill and glanced about, then down. No one was moving around out there. Looking back at the room, he bit his lip in worry, before instructing Gilbird to stay put and squeezing through the gap to flit over to the table. He took one last look over his shoulder at the window before climbing the stairs with intent and pushing open the front door.


	2. It's Probably Because You're Nosy

Something grasped at Matthew's shoulders from behind and he heard a quiet, confused muttering come from there. _Alfred_, he thought. Alfred often did things like this; picked him up or held him, forgetting his strength. But Alfred had just left and - it was strange. The hold was like that of – well, not the pinch of fingers. Like small hands. Or what Matthew imagined small hands would feel like on shoulders. Matthew flicked a glance over his shoulder and then fell forward in surprise, suddenly free of the hold – and sitting on the floor. There, standing in his living room like everything was perfectly normal and all the right size, was a – a – it wasn't possible.

Matthew stared into space, shocked, until it spoke. "Where are your wings?" Stupidly, he reached around to his back, as if surprised at the lack of wings protruding, grasping at the skin there.

A thought pierced his mind, a single grain of sense forcing it's way through a crowd of confusion. That is a person, it told him. That is a man. Matthew stared at him. "I thought you were Alfred."

The man tilted his head to the side and blinked. "Oh. That's…where are they? Do you even have th – I don't think you could fly without them." The man began to move forward, stretching out a hand towards Matthew's shoulder, but, almost involuntarily, he crawled backwards in a violent flurry of movement, and the man paused. He squinted at Matthew.

This was not possible. Matthew was about to consider the possibility that he was having some ridiculous dream, but dismissed this theory since he'd been doing laundry previous to this. People don't do laundry in their dreams. But this was not possible. Strange, tiny men do not just wonder into your home and inquire into your lack of flying ability.

"Did my papa make you?" Matthew asked the man. That was the only halfway plausible conclusion he could come to. A moving…a frighteningly real, though of course not real, doll. A doll that was obviously baffled by his question. Frighteningly. Frighteningly real. Terrifying, really.

"Uh, what? Of course not, I'm," he straightened, lifted his chin a little, and grinned. "I'm the prince." He faltered, his eyebrows lowering in doubt. "Don't you know me?"

Matthew studied him. The 'prince' was maybe half a head shorter than him and was dressed in tones of dark blue and black. The style of the clothes suggested crappy 1400s dramas, whilst the cloth itself looked untarnished and expensive. The fine threads of silver that weaved through his jacket matched the colour of his hair, which was deeply in contrast to the uncomfortable red of his eyes. He stood straight-backed; in fact the only thing about him that did not seem practiced and pristine was his slightly bumped nose and the bruise on his jawline. He should have come across astringent and formal but his unsure expression, which was at odds with the sharp angles of his face, made him seem very childlike.

"No," Matthew told him. "I don't know you."

The man opened his mouth to speak but, seemingly at a loss for words, closed it again. After a long, drawn out moment, he seemed to regain composure. "Well, my name is –"

"Get out." Matthew spoke so quickly that it came out like 'gehrowat', though he was too worried about this ridiculous hallucination to think about enunciating._ Perhaps I really should be concerned for my sanity_, he thought and, as an afterthought, _I will not listen to anymore of Arthur's stories_.

Matthew supposed that if someone had asked him before what he would have done upon meeting someone like himself, he may have expressed some sense of vague euphoria, and that would have been because he really didn't know. What do you do when the very situation you've been hoping for your entire life comes along? Of course, never open hope, not the kind of hope you're allowed to feel. It's a destructive kind of hope. Hope for something so impossible that you just wish that you didn't feel it. For every second he spent hoping, there were two spent scolding himself.

While lost in this tirade of self-pity, he had forgotten for a moment that the apparition of an indignant prince still stood before him.

"That was rude," the prince told Matthew. His red eyes were wide and unblinking and the way he said it, it didn't sound like an accusation. "I need to introduce myself, and then you'll offer me tea, and then I'll leave, but you won't say 'get out'." He squinted a little. _Even in my imagination I am surrounded by airheads_. "Anyway," one side of his mouth lifted into a half smile, "my name is Gilbert." _Airheads with stupid names and, now that I think about it, stupid accents_. Matthew studied Gilbert's only slightly endearing smile for a short moment before scrambling to his feet. _This is ridiculous_. In fact, the more he came to terms with the situation, the more ridiculous it seemed.

"I can't make tea." Matthew threw his hands up, looking from side to side, encouraging the man to take in the doll house-esque surroundings. "No power. Besides, isn't it rude to come barging in to someone's house and start grabbing at them and asking about their lack of – extensions?"

"Extensions?"  
>"Extensions."<p>

Gilbert took his bottom lip into his mouth and furrowed his brow in concentration. After a few silent seconds, he breathed out a heavy sigh and said, with a high pitched and disturbing laugh, "Princes don't need to be polite."

During what was the possibly the bravest moment in Matthew's life thus far, he moved forward with his fist raised to punch Gilbert, but to no avail since he caught Matthew's hand in his palm, just a small distance from his face. Gilbert used both hands to bring Matthew's fist down to his chest level and scrutinise it, so that Matthew staggered forward a little. He flattened out Matthew's fingers and pointed at his thumb, which had been tucked into the centre of the fist.

"Don't do that," he murmured. "You'll break your thumb." He released Matthew's hand and Matthew pulled it up to his chest, cradling it with the other, a stricken and slightly offended expression on his face.

"How did you even get in here?" Matthew asked.

Gilbert flicked his wrist in the general direction of the front door of the doll house. "It wasn't hard."

"I meant the house," Matthew explained, his voice slowing. His inner voice chided him for his rudeness. It occurred to Matthew he'd never been so bold, though it was also true that he'd never had a chance to be.

Gilbert sneered. "This is a house. Are you stu- oh." A strange epiphany-like expression settled over Gilbert's features and he looked at Matthew with a strange mix of horror and intrigue. "You _know _you're in a human house?"

Matthew considered trying to hit Gilbert again and afterwards noted he should stop spending so much time around Arthur. "Of course I do. How did you get in?" Matthew repeated.

His expression cracking, Gilbert started to laugh again, his hands covering his stomach as he rose into the air, circling the room as his laugh rose in volume. He made obvious attempts to speak but they were cut off with gasping breaths. "You – I – are you – !?" His laughter eventually began to fester out when he hit his head on the overhanging light, and he sank to lie on the floor, holding his sides and looking over at Matthew occasionally, only to dissolve in giggles once again each time. Standing only to go and lean against the wall, Gilbert wiped his eyes and stared at Matthew with a scrutinising expression. "You live in a human house."

"Your skills of deduction are uncanny. How did you get into the human house?" Matthew once again inwardly scolded himself for his bad manners, but honestly aside from his kind demeanour he wasn't really very patient and especially not with impossibly short albinos who come wondering into other people's houses and messing up the lights on their ceili- he flew. Matthew, thinking back, recalled the faint buzzing sound and blur that hovered over his back and was now hidden from sight. He flew. Matthew staggered backwards, his hand lifting to rest on his forehead and his eyes swivelling to the ground. He _flew_.

Matthew barely registered that Gilbert had started talking again, and his hand slid from his forehead to the top of his head where it began to knead anxiously at his hair, his mind flicking between crappy overdone cartoons and the fluttering, buzzing colours at Gilbert's back as he hovered, between borrowers balancing atop strands of grass and the man who stood in front of him.

Feeling once again a small hand come to rest on his shoulder, Matthew looked up. "Are you alright?" Matthew, almost deliriously, listed that Gilbert found it difficult to make his way around 'r's, and when he looked up from the crimson stains of his eyes, he saw thin, veined strips peaking over Gilbert's silver hair.

_Wings. Oh. _

And with that, much like his father upon seeing him years before, Matthew dropped to the floor, unconscious.


End file.
